The bus ride home after the Ponte Preta match was oddly quiet—not from exhaustion, but from satisfaction. Palmeiras had done what they needed to. A composed, efficient win that left the players in that rare state of contentment where words felt unnecessary. Thiago sat by the window, forehead against the cool glass, watching as the city lights slid past in streaks of white and amber, each one a fleeting comet in the night.
The goal still played in his mind on a loop: the weight of Rafael's through ball, the way it had settled into his stride as if pulled by an invisible thread; the angled touch across the defender's outstretched leg, just enough to wrong-foot him; the shot slipping past the keeper's glove with surgical precision. It hadn't been flashy, but it had been clean. Deliberate. Like he'd seen the moment before it happened.
